out to her at every new touch to mark how this and that was done.  She did not understand as he did, but she saw how beautiful it was, and she was glad to have seen the great painter, as she had been glad to hear the great poet.  It seemed to the little Pilgrim as if everything happened well for her, and that no one had ever been so blessed before.  And to make it all more sweet, this new friend, this great and sweet lady, always held her hand, and pressed it softly when something more lovely appeared; and even the pictured faces on the wall seemed to beam upon her, as they came out one by one like the stars in the sky.  Then the three went on again, and passed by many more beautiful palaces, and great streets leading away into the light, till you could see no farther; and they met with bands of singers, who sang so sweetly that the heart seemed to leap out of the Pilgrim’s breast to meet with them, for above all things this was what she had loved most.  And out of one of the palaces there came such glorious music, that everything she had seen and heard before seemed as nothing in comparison.  And amid all these delights they went on and on, but without wearying, till they came out of the streets into lovely walks and alleys, and made their way to the banks of a great river, which seemed to sing too, a soft melody of its own.

And here there were some fair houses surrounded by gardens and flowers that grew everywhere, and the doors were all open, and within everything was lovely and still, and ready for rest if you were weary.  The little Pilgrim was not weary, but the lady placed her upon a couch in the porch, where the pillars and the roof were all formed of interlacing plants and flowers; and there they sat with her and talked, and explained to her many things.  They told her that the earth, though so small, was the place in all the world to which the thoughts of those above were turned.  “And not only of us who have lived there, but of all our brothers in the other worlds; for we are the race which the Father has chosen to be the example.  In every age there is one that is the scene of the struggle and the victory, and it is for this reason that the chronicles are made, and that we are all placed here to gather the meaning of what has been done among men.  And I am one of those,” the lady said, “that go back to the dear earth and gather up the tale of what our little brethren are doing.  I have not to succour, like some others, but only to see and bring the news; and he makes them into great poems as you have heard; and sometimes the master painter will take one and make of it a picture; and there is nothing that is so delightful to us as when we can bring back the histories of beautiful things.”

“But, oh,” said the little Pilgrim, “what can there be on earth so beautiful as the meanest thing that is here?”